a male human and put there, above the soft, long, womanish mouth. But he often saw this seriousness, this aggressiveness, in modern females. It’s just that this was, well, a witch.
Both were enthralled.
They did not speak to each other, or move. But they were together, one figure slightly overlapping the other. The wind didn’t carry their scent to him. It was blowing in the other direction, which meant, strictly speaking, that they ought to catch his.
The woman suddenly broke the stillness, but only with the slight movement of her lips. She had whispered something to her companion. But he remained silent, studying Ash as before.
Ash relaxed all over. He let his hands hang naturally at his sides, which he seldom did, due to the length of his arms. But they must see he concealed nothing. He walked back across Brook Street, very slowly, giving them time to run if they wanted it, though he prayed to God they would not.
He moved towards them slowly on Spelling. They did not move. Suddenly one of the pedestrians bumped him accidentally and dropped an entire paper sack of small items to the pavement with a crash. The sack broke. The items were scattered.
“Now of all times,” he thought, but quickly he smiled, and dropped down on one knee and began to pick up everything for the poor individual. “I’m so very sorry,” he said.
It was an elderly woman, who gave him a cheery laugh now, and told him that he was too tall to bend down to do such things as this.
“I don’t mind at all. It was my fault,” he said, shrugging. He was close enough to the witches, perhaps, for them to hear him, but he could not show fear.
The woman had a large canvas bag over her arm. Finally he had gathered up all of the little bundles and deposited them in the canvas bag. And away she went, waving to him as he waved cordially and respectfully to her.
The witches hadn’t moved. He knew it. He could feel them watching him. He could feel the same power which caused the sheen to them in his vision, perhaps the same energy. He didn’t know. There was now at most twenty feet between them.
He turned his head and looked at them. He had his back to the traffic, and he could see them clearly in front of the plate-glass window full of dresses. How fearsome they both looked. The light emanating from Rowan had become a very subtle glow in his eyes, and now he did smell her—bloodless. A witch who could not bear. The scent of the man was strong, and the face was more terrible, filled with suspicion and perhaps even wrath.
It chilled him, the way they looked at him. But everyone cannot love you, he thought with a small smile. Not even all witches can love you. That is far too much to ask. The important thing was that they had not run away.
Again, he started to walk towards them. But Rowan Mayfair startled him. She gestured with a pointing finger, and a hand held close to her breast, for him to look across the street.
Perhaps this is a trick. They mean to kill me, he thought. The idea amused him, but only partially. He looked as she had directed. He saw a coffee shop opposite. And the gypsy was just emerging, with an elderly man at his side. Yuri looked ill, worse than ever, and his haphazard jeans and shirt were far too light for the chilly air.
Yuri saw Ash at once. He stepped clear of the busy entrance. He stared at Ash madly, or so it seemed. Poor soul, he is crazy, thought Ash, truly. The elderly man was talking very intently to Yuri, and did not seem to notice that Yuri was looking away.
This elderly man. It had to be Stuart Gordon! He wore the somber, old-fashioned clothes of the Talamasca, wing-tip shoes and very narrow lapels, and the vest to match his coat. Almost precious. Yes, it was Gordon, surely, or another member of the Talamasca. There could be no mistake.
How Gordon pleaded with Yuri, how distraught he seemed. And Yuri stood not one foot from this man. This man could at any moment kill Yuri in any of a half-dozen secret ways.
Ash started across the street, dodging one car and forcing another to a hasty and noisy stop.
Suddenly, Stuart Gordon realized that Yuri was being distracted. Stuart Gordon was annoyed. He wanted to